


Time Is Dancing

by thirdsister



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A bit of swearing, Avengers Endgame, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Laundry, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdsister/pseuds/thirdsister
Summary: A series of Endgame one-shots that form a larger narrative





	1. Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve stops by the Avengers facility to do laundry

The damn thing is broken. Again. He’s not sure it was ever fixed in the first place. The super, like nearly everyone else in the universe these days, has been a little distracted. Never mind that half the reason Steve chose to live here was the in-building washer and dryer. He gives the machine a half-hearted kick hoping it’ll jar the thing into working. It doesn’t. Of course. 

He heaves a sigh as he places his still dry still dirty clothes black into the laundry basket. There are two logical options, he can hand wash a couple things and leave them to dry hanging on the shower rod, or he can go looking for a laundromat. He casts one last look around the dank basement to make certain he hasn’t lost a sock in the unloading process and, without ever making a conscious decision, charts a course for option number three. 

It’s a two-hour drive with his laundry basket in the passenger seat. Plenty of time to marvel at the ridiculousness of the situation. _This has to be the world’s lamest excuse to see a friend_ he thinks as the sun begins to set. _You know you don’t need an excuse, right? You could just show up. You could say ‘I miss you’ or ‘I don’t want you to be alone so much’ or ‘I don’t want myself to be alone so much’ or literally anything at all,_ He chides himself silently. Always silently. 

He stays quiet as he enters the facility, an old habit from years on the run. He pauses in the foyer when he hears voices coming from the command room. The first is obviously Natasha, it takes half a second more to realize the second voice belongs to Okoye. He wonders idly if they’re finishing up the weekly briefing or if this is an unscheduled call. It feels wrong to eavesdrop, but he does it anyway. 

“How are you really?” Natasha asks.

“I’m… what I have to be.” The general answers, weariness heavy in her voice.

“I know the feeling.” He can picture Natasha’s expression exactly and he feels his chest tighten. They sound so unguarded with each other. It makes sense, there's no one they need to take care of. Natasha used to be like this with him, but her walls went back up the night after they discovered Thanos had destroyed the stones. He doesn't blame her. How can he when he did the exact same thing? “How is the queen?”

“Queen Nakia or the Queen Mother?”

“Both.”

“The Queen Mother is better. Still not eating as regularly as we’d like, but she’s appearing publicly again and she’s spending more and more time mentoring Nakia. I’m happy to report Queen Nakia has found her stride. There are still days when I wish we could go back to before Wakanda took its place in the world, but our queen has a talent for diplomacy like no one I’ve ever seen. We’re so close to stabilizing the region. T’Challa would be-” her voice shakes only slightly as she corrects herself, “ _will_ be very proud.”

“Glad to hear it. How are the new trainees?” Her voice is warm, he lets himself imagine she’s smiling. 

“Currently? Useless. But they’re improving every day.” He can almost hear Okoye rolling her eyes as Nat chuckles. God in heaven he’s missed that sound. _Maybe you wouldn’t miss it it so much if bothered to show up more than once every few weeks._

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will. Actually, maybe I’ll start threatening to send them to you. ‘Pay attention or I’ll send you to train with the Black Widow”

“Haha, tell them I’ll make them fight in pointe shoes, that’ll scare them straight.”

“A terrifying prospect. Well, I should get back to my useless recruits. Take care, Nat.”

“You too.” He hears a click as the transmission ends and a faint scraping as she pushes her chair back from the table. He knows he needs to announce his presence before she finds him here in the foyer clutching his pile of shirts and flimsy excuses. 

“Hey Nat. Just stopped by to do some laundry. I’ll be downstairs.” He grimaces and makes his way to the facility’s laundry room. He empties the contents of the basket into the washer and is about to add the detergent when he decides to throw in his plaid overshirt as well. He’s fumbling at getting the thing over his head when he hears her coming.

“You know, most people would unbutton a shirt before trying to take it off.”

“I’m not most people,” His retort is somewhat muffled by the fabric. He can only imagine he looks as utterly ridiculous as he feels. Her steps are so light he feels rather than hears her come to stand in front of him.

“Arms down, genius” She smirks, lightly tugging in the edges of the fabric. He sighs and does as he is bid and catches sight of her for the first time. She’s been forgetting to dye her hair more and more often recently, her red roots are already starting to show. Her hair looks a little damp and her knuckles are beginning to bruise, she must have hit the gym before her call. She quirks one eyebrow up at him.

“I… the machine in my building is broken.”

She drops her gaze as she begins unfastening the buttons. “So instead of going to a laundromat like everyone else in New York you drove two hours north just for some clean socks?”

“And to see a friend.”

She stills her hands, tilting her head and looking up at him with that “you may be in the wrong business” smirk. The one he likes to imagine is just for him. The one he likes to imagine. He can feel a lump forming in his throat. These days everything is slow and difficult like trudging through wet sand, but this… this is easy. Their trademark banter, that Steve and Nat rhythm is right where they left it. Like they never left it at all. Like their world didn’t crumble while they watched. Like he didn’t throw his meager belongings in a duffle bag and and leave her to hold the world together with her bare hand because he couldn’t handle the empty spaces. Maybe Ultron was right. Maybe Steve Rogers is lost without a war. 

He forces himself back to the present. Placing his hands over hers he barely whispers, “Nat, don’t.”

“Don’t what, Rogers?” She asks genuinely confused and more than a little amused at his suddenly serious tone.

“Don’t look at me like that. Not if you don’t mean it.”

“How am I looking at you?” 

“You… Well, like… it’s” he flounders, his voice becoming slightly higher and a little nasalized the way it does when he gets flustered. Natasha tries unsuccessfully to bite back a grin. He looks so much younger right now, huffing defensively the way he did all those years ago on the way to New Jersey when he’d thought she was accusing him of being a bad kisser. 

He releases her hands and she gently begins the work of unfastening the remaining buttons. As she slips the fabric off his shoulders she stands on her tiptoes to whisper, “Don’t tell me what I mean.” 

It was meant to be an innocent flirtation, but before she can descend from her relevé, his mouth is on hers. Hard. Desperate. Before she has time to think, her hands are pressing firmly to his back and he has one hand in her freshly washed hair and the other around her waist. Once the match is lit, the flames devour everything. She’s taking his bottom lip between her teeth. He’s leaving a trail of searing kisses down the left side of her neck. He’s pulling her grey cotton camisole over her head. She’s unbuckling his belt. His hand is working between her thighs, finding the rhythm that leaves her gasping. Her back is pressed to the pristine white wall and she's seeing stars. They’re on the floor and he’s gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, clenching his jaw before they tumble over, spent.

They’re watching their clothes tumble together in the washing machine, suddenly aware of how cold the tile floor is on their bare skin. Despite the mild discomfort, it seems a crime to move when Steve is pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Natasha’s head. It wouldn’t hurt to stay tangled like this for a few more moments. After all, where else do the need to be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> Please forgive the typos. This will be in live edits through the end of the week.
> 
> So this particular one-shot was born out of a tumblr post I made about how "laundry" in Endgame really felt like it was code. Because nobody drives two hours out of the city to wash their clothes. That's just not a thing. Anyway, that post hit a bit of an unexpected nerve so I wrote this instead of finishing my other WIP. I don't know why I'm like this either.
> 
> You can find me dorking around on tumblr [here](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined.


	2. Sort, Wash, Dry, Fold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's Laundry List  
> (Chapter 1.5)

Sort  
Wash  
Dry  
Fold  
Fuck  
Repeat  
Repeat  
Repeat  
Worry you're holding him back  
Let him make you dinner  
Politely explain the purpose of a meat thermometer  
Laugh  
Laugh until your sides hurt  
Laugh until you're both crying  
Fuck  
Sort  
Wash  
Dry  
Fold  
Fuck  
Repeat  
Ask if he's found anyone special  
When he goes silent feel guilty for hoping and hoping and hoping he hasn't  
Then feel guilty because he's ofended you asked  
Sort  
Wash  
Dry  
Fold  
Fuck  
Spar  
Fuck  
Sort  
Wash  
Dry  
Shrink his 3rd favorite sweater  
Laugh  
Fuck  
Fold  
Run out of peanut butter  
Wonder if you should get a cat  
Sort  
Wash  
Dry  
Fold  
Fuck  
Repeat  
Sort  
Wash  
Dry  
Fold  
Fuck  
Catch yourself for just one moment being perfectly, incandescently happy for the first time since  
Since  
Pick a fight  
Wait a month  
Call and ask if he's been "hand washing" his clothes  
It's not an apology, but it does the trick  
Sort  
Wash  
Kiss him  
Like you missed him  
Like the world is ending now, not years ago  
Dry  
Fold  
Fuck  
Sort  
We have  
Wash  
What we have  
Dry  
When we have it  
Fold  
Fuck  
Repeat  
Repeat  
Repeat

You First.


	3. Machine Wash Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s routine now, these Sunday mornings. Every other Saturday Steve stops by to do laundry, among other things, and every other Sunday morning Nat tries to let him sleep in. They made it to 7:30 once. He’ll switch up the days occasionally, but it’s usually Saturdays. Less traffic. It’s almost laughable now how nervous he was when they started. Not the first time, of course. The first time was a whirlwind of bodies and need and long repressed feelings. The second time he came by for “clean socks”, she could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. A self-satisfied blush creeps across her cheeks as she remembers how it all melted away at her kiss. Like breaking a spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light trigger warning for some self-destructive behavior bordering on self-harm. Please feel free to message me on tumblr [ here ](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/) if you need details to decide whether or not to engage.

It’s barely dawn. Hints of pewter blue light are just creeping through the wide windows. The only living souls awake are Natasha and the birds chirping excitedly in the tree below. She read once that birds sing at and just before dawn as a way of signaling to their mates that they made it through the night. She’s not sure if that’s true, but it’s as good a reason to sing as anything. Sometimes, Natasha Romanoff catches herself doing the same, singing softly in the early morning hours. She casts a glance over at the man snoring quietly beside her. Steve always looks infuriatingly beautiful, but there’s an extra magic to catching glimpses of him in these liminal spaces: between night and morning, between sleep and waking. There’s something about the way the gentle light washes over his relaxed face that elevates him to art. It’s exactly that type of melancholy perfection that makes her want to thwack him soundly on the nose. She gloats internally at her admirable restraint.

She wants to get up to make coffee, but she knows better. If she tries to leave the bed, Steve will groan and gather her into a tight embrace, all without waking. She teases him about being an “octopus-sleeper”, but she doesn’t really mind that much. There are worse fates that spending an hour or two reading in bed in the morning.

It’s routine now, these Sunday mornings. Every other Saturday Steve stops by to do laundry, among other things, and every other Sunday morning Nat tries to let him sleep in. They made it to 7:30 once. He’ll switch up the days occasionally, but it’s usually Saturdays. Less traffic. It’s almost laughable now how nervous he was when they started. Not the first time, of course. The first time was a whirlwind of bodies and need and long repressed feelings. The second time he came by for “clean socks”, she could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. A self-satisfied blush creeps across her cheeks as she remembers how it all melted away at her kiss. Like breaking a spell.

 _“I could make a habit of this.”_ She remembers him saying.  
_“What kind of friend would I be if I let you run around New York with nothing to wear,”_ She’d replied. And that was that.

She lets herself pretend sometimes. That this is real life. That it isn’t what it is. Partial custody of happiness. Still. It’s a fair trade for failure. More than fair. She’s not sure she deserves every other weekend, but she’ll take it.

“That’s nice.” Steve murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“The song. It’s pretty.”

“Oh, did I wake you? Sorry, I should have been quieter.”

“The day I complain about waking up to the sound of your voice is… well, probably the day you start belting show tunes at four a.m. to fuck with me.”

“I don’t think you’re ever going to catch me ‘belting show tunes’, Rogers.” She scoffs.

“Oh, you would,” He sits up, fully awake now. “You’d record my reaction and send it to all our friends.”

“You think I’m going to start a prank war with you? What am I, a teenager?”

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em, Romanoff,” He shrugs.

“Go back to sleep, old man.” She teases, lightly covering his face with her hand.

“Kids these days,” he grins, taking hold of her wrist and pressing a kiss to her palm, “no respect.”

She leans in close so that their lips are almost touching. “You want me to show you some respect? Then make me,” She raises an eyebrow suggestively, “some coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he salutes as he rolls out of bed, happy to oblige. She may not deserve every other weekend, but she needs it. Steve clearly does too. And what kind of friend would she be if she denied him?

\--  
“What are we doing here, Natasha?” he asks, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She can’t help leaning into his touch. He’s pressing his nose behind her ear. Inhaling the scent of her. 

“I’m folding shirts. I have no idea what you’re doing.” Her audible amusement is a thin cover and he sees through it instantly.

“You know what I mean.” And she does. If she’s honest she knew this conversation was coming. How could it not? She’s surprised they’ve managed to avoid it as long as they have. She’s had this conversation a thousand times in her head. At least five times out of ten it ends in disaster. Four times out of ten it ends in sex. And the remaining ten percent of her imaginary conversations end in one of the surviving Avengers dramatically bursting through the door and revealing they’ve found a way to bring half the universe back.

“Oh. _That._ We’re doing laundry,” She states matter of factly.

“Look, I’m not complaining or anything. Laundry is great. Really _really_ great. It’s...you know; I’m going to stop before the metaphor gets away from me. But is laundry ever going to be something else?”

She’s deeply grateful that he chose to initiate this conversation over her shoulder. She tells herself that what she’s about to say won’t hurt him. That they have a good thing going and it’s good for both of them. But if she’s wrong, she’s thankful she won’t have to look him in the eye. Natasha Romanoff has been to hell and back. She’s seen and done things most people could never imagine. And yet, her blood runs cold at the thought of watching Steve Rogers’ heart break. 

“I don’t see how it can be. I can’t leave. You won’t stay. So that just leaves us in the middle. Folding fitted sheets.”

“Ok. Laundry it is.”

“Laundry it is,” She stops folding and turns to look up at him. He sounded certain, perhaps even relieved, but she needs to see his face to be sure. “Is that going to be enough for you?”

A devilish smirk winds its way across his features, “I think I can be convinced. But I might need someone to remind me, now and again, why I like laundry so much.”

She reminds him. She reminds him with a kiss. She reminds him a playful nip of her teeth. She reminds him with a trail of lazy kisses that move from his jaw, to the hollow of his neck, and further, working languidly down the planes of his body. She reminds him with her mouth. She reminds him with every part of her. In doing so she reminds herself. This is good. It’s not perfect but it’s good. It can’t be more but _please god, don’t let it be less._ She reminds him again and again. Until their legs are shaking. Until they can hardly catch their breath. Until the idea of ever moving from this spot seems as insurmountable a task as summiting Mt Everest. Until they both fall asleep. And wake up. And remind each other again.

\--  
Some things are delicate. Sleepy Sunday mornings for instance. Friendships that include laundry for instance. Keeping a broken world from falling apart for instance. Crepes for instance, which is why Natasha makes them with raspberry syrup once a month and why when it’s Steve’s turn he opts for pancakes instead. The syrup is considerably less delicate; it seemed the only thing to do with the garden raspberries which we too pretty to waste and too sour to eat. So, she added sugar and heat and made something palatable.

First birthday presents for Morgan Stark, for instance.

“Don’t worry, I signed your name to the card.” She assures him between bites of crepe. 

“Oh, thank you.”

“It’s what I do, Rogers.” she shrugs.

Later that morning, he sneaks away to view the purchase history to see how she had the card signed. ‘Love Auntie Natasha and Uncle Steve’. It sounds good. It feels right in a way he can’t name. Well, he could name it, but not if he wants to be able to keep going. He leaves the feeling undefined. Like most things between them.

Some things are too delicate to name.

\--  
Sometimes something breaks the holding pattern they’re in. Something like a 2 a.m. phone call and a wrecked motorcycle. Sometimes she’s popping her friend’s dislocated shoulder back into place with only sense memory and an iPhone flashlight to guide her. Then they’re hauling the dilapidated vehicle into the back of the truck he asked her to bring. And she knows he’s going to lie, but she asks him anyway. She has to.

“You want to tell me what that was about?”

“Just lost control of the bike. Stupid. Shouldn’t have been out riding this late anyway.” It’s almost convincing. Almost. He’s lying to her face and she’s wishing she’d never taught him how. She made Steve “I’m always honest” Rogers into an incredible liar, but he’s still pretty terrible at lying to _her_. That’s got to count for something.

“Don’t you fucking dare do that.” She wields her words like daggers.

“What? Go out late, or crash my bike? Because, this road rash is going to make me think twice before getting on a bike again.”

“The front of that thing is _concave_. You crashed full speed directly into a tree. So don’t you dare try to play this off like an accident. I know you, Rogers. Don’t talk to me like I’m other people.” She seethes.

She’s right, of course. There’s nothing to say so he just hangs his head. Still, it could be worse. He’d take her anger over her disappointment any day.

The arctic was warmer than their silent drive to the compound. Natasha lets out a heavy sigh as she kills the engine. “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you promise me something?”

“Anything.” He agrees too quickly. Nat feels a twinge of pity; her roadside speech clearly did a number on him. She shrugs the feeling off; it serves him right for being that reckless.

“Next time you get that ‘I’m about to do something self-destructive just to feel something’ itch, promise you’ll call me. I can beat the crap out of you in the ring for considerably less than it’s going to cost to fix that bike.”

“Ok, deal.” He waits a beat, “you really think you can take me hand to hand?”

“Try me, Rogers.” She deadpans. He chuckles softly and then it’s quiet. A heavy, aching, early morning quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I know.” She takes his hand without looking at him. She doesn’t know quite how long they stay that way. Fingers interlaced in the dark. “Come on, let’s get you to sleep before the sun comes. We can worry about the bike tomorrow.”

\--  
Another one. Another nightmare she can’t shake. It clings to her like her damp pajamas. But the sun is streaming in and she can smell the aroma of fresh coffee wafting up from the kitchen. She shudders, then showers, then puts on clean clothes and her mask of unflappability and heads down to the kitchen to use her friend as a dream catcher.

He’s standing shirtless at the window, mug in one hand, pajamas slung low over his hips. Not that she’d admit it, but Steve’s back is one of her favorite sights. She loves the mechanics of it. The puzzle. Watching the ways the corded muscles fit together working with tendons and sinew to move bone. In certain lights she can see the shape of the slender young man he used to be. Like photos superimposed on top of each other. She loves the feel of it too. When the muscles become tight and spasm (because you’d be hard pressed to find another person on the planet who carries as much shoulder tension as Steven Grant Rogers) discovering the knots with her gentle fingertips. Applying just the right amount of pressure, working diligently until they have no choice but to dissolve into her touch.

“You know I can feel you watching me.”

“I must be losing my edge.”

“Would it kill you to entertain the possibility that my skills are just improving?”

“Yes, it would. I would drop dead on the kitchen floor.”

“Very funny. The coffee’s fresh if you want some.”

“Thanks.” She pours herself a mug. “Where’s the-”  
He hands her the shaker of cinnamon. She smiles as she takes it from his hand, purposely grazing his fingers with her own. She’s just swallowed the first blissful sip when she hears a notification from the command room. Their eyes widen as they set down their mugs and bolt in the direction of the sound. Her heart is hammering. She knows better, but before she can stop herself, hope sinks its sharp talons into her ribcage. This could be it. The call that she’s been waiting for since Clint Barton first dropped off the grid. Maybe Rhodes found him. Or he finally has a solid lead. Or maybe, just maybe it’s Clint himself. If she can just find him, just talk to him, if she can just bring him home-

“It’s a video from Tony”

She lets out a heavy sigh, so it’s probably not life changing or world ending. Well, not unless he’s made another evil robot who wants to bring world peace by wiping out humanity. Tony Stark hardly wears an outfit more than once; it seems unlikely he’d create the same type of supervillain twice. Though stranger things have happened.

“Play it.” She commands. They don’t sit. They just stand in front of the screen waiting with bated breath. She’s vaguely aware that she’s gripping Steve’s hand. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. you getting this?” Tony’s voice calls from off-screen.

“We’re rolling, Mr. Stark.”

Morgan stark, whose wispy dark curls are already considerably longer than they were in the last picture Pepper and Tony sent to the group, is standing up and gripping the edge of a coffee table. Natasha is relieved to notice that the corners of the table have been covered in soft-looking foam (or perhaps silicone) bumpers. Clearly the Stark-Potts household has taken no chances when it comes to babyproofing.

“Come on, Morgan, Honey! Come to Daddy!”

“Come on, sweetie, you can do it,” Pepper encourages. By the sound of it, she’s standing next to Tony.

Morgan looks at the table and her parents and the table again before letting go of the edge with a big smile and putting one foot in front of the other. She makes it four whole paces with her arms out wide before losing her balance and falling back on her bum to a chorus clapping of delighted squeaks from her parents. In an instant Pepper has gathered her daughter into her arms and is showering the child who has just graduated from baby to toddler right before their eyes with kisses. Morgan Stark giggles at her mother. Natasha and Steve wonder if there’s ever been a sweeter sound.

Natasha’s eyes sting as, without warning, her joy spills over and becomes something else entirely. She’s crying. Then sobbing. Then she can’t stop. Steve says nothing. He just gathers her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. Holding her until the storm passes. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when she catches her breath, wiping her eyes before resting her forehead on his collarbone, “I don’t know why I-”

“Are you kidding?” He asks, gently rubbing her back, “It happens to all of us. I saw a daisy break through the sidewalk last week and I fell apart on a street corner. At least this makes sense.”

There’s some comfort in that, she supposes. Everyone is a mess, so no one is. Wild, unpredictable grief is the default setting. She takes a steadying breath.

“You hungry?” She peers up at him.

“Always.” He smiles. 

Some things are delicate. Balance, for instance. Hope, for instance. First steps, for instance. Intrepid city flowers, for instance. Some things are delicate, but Natasha Romanoff and Steve Rogers are not among them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> So, my intended update schedule for this fic is every other weekend. That's clearly not how it has been working out so far, but I'm hopeful.
> 
> Please forgive the typos, I'll likely do another round of edits before the week is out.
> 
> Tune in next time when we pay a visit to New Asgard
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [ here ](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined.


	4. Home for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years after the snap, Steve and Natasha spend Christmas together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light Disclaimers and Dedications,
> 
> This chapter has some unintended similarities to a chapter of the lovely capsiclewidow's work ["Whiskey & You"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856327/chapters/52163107). I wrote the outline of this chapter months before I read their work, and the overlap is purely coincidence. Please go read their story, it's delightful
> 
> This chapter is lovingly dedicated to Marylen. Like Peggy Carter, she will never steer you wrong.

_What would Peggy Carter do?_ He asks himself that a lot. Peggy Carter would never sugar coat the world, but Peggy Carter would find a way to comfort her friend. She would not just listen, but show her loved one that they were being heard. Being seen. Peggy Carter would show up. Peggy Carter wouldn’t leave her friend alone on Christmas and neither would Steve Rogers. 

Four years in and things are normal. As normal as they’ll ever be. But the holidays are always hard. Full of candle-lit vigils, nostalgia, tears, and for those making their way in this brave new world there a new traditions. The cold bites harder this December than it has in a while. He hates the cold. 

This is just one of the many reasons he chose to do his Christmas shopping online. Natasha might still affectionately call him a dinosaur, but even this brontosaurus could navigate an etsy shop. Besides, he was looking for something specific. He just hopes it will be enough. He’s not sure what enough even means, but he hopes for it anyway. A child’s prayer. An impossible task for a little box, even beautifully wrapped as it is in emerald paper.

He sighs looking down at the compass in his hands. At the arrow that has never steered him wrong. North. To her. Always to her. “Go,” he can almost hear Peggy say, “go before the roads ice over.” 

\--

“oohh no” She laughs before she can stop herself. By the thick layer of snow covering ever part of Steve, she surmises that the afternoon flurries have given way to blizzard conditions. She feels a small pang of pity that he had to drive all this way in the storm, but it's overshadowed by the overwhelming relief that that he made it. She admonishes herself for ever doubting he would. But alone in this facility surrounded only by snow and silence, it's easy to forget. Easy to think the world has gone on without her. That this alone is all she'll ever be. He shakes himself like a dog, spraying the foyer with rapidly melting snowflakes. And she shakes herself of her decidedly un-yuletide thoughts. He's here. He made it. And he's in dire need of some light teasing and a warm beverage. “You want to take your coat off or you want stand there and glare at me like I control the weather.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Natasha.” He huffs. 

“You can’t be grumpy, there’s mulled wine.”

“Is there actually mulled wine or did you get the ingredients for a drink you’re expecting me to make?”

“You’re impossible” She throws her hands up in mock frustration as she walks away. He smiles to himself. This is good. She seems good. Better than the last time he stopped in. It might be for show, but he chooses to believe it. For tonight at least. He can’t help but notice she hasn’t cut or dyed her hair yet though. She’s gone a while without doing it before, but this might be the longest yet. It doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. 

He steps into the living room. What a difference a few lights can make. A couple garlands. A little tree. Soon Natasha is shoving a mug of wine into his hand with an “I told you so” raise of her eyebrow and he’s shrugging apologetically. For a moment, the world is merry and bright and Steve Rogers is exactly where he is meant to be. That compass has never steered him wrong.

\--

“It’s beautiful” he breathes. The leather bound sketchbook in his hands is a work of art. Stunning in its simplicity. It’s perfect. It’s exactly the sort of thing she’d pick. She has this way of seeing him. She always has. Sometimes it frightens him to be so utterly known. He does love a shield after all, but then there’s moments like this. A gift that speaks to the best parts of himself. The part of him that sees beauty and can’t help but put it to paper. 

“Open yours.”

She gasps softly as she takes the silver object out of the box. Simple, perfect (he hopes) a silver arrow on a plain chain. It’s not an exact match for the one she lost, but it’s close. He'd chosen it for two reasons. First and foremost as a symbol of hope. The hunt for Clint was tearing her apart, but he had faith that if anyone could find Clint Barton it was Natasha Romanoff. He'd been there himself when he was searching for Bucky all those years ago. He knows how important it is to have a touchstone, a memory, a picture, hell even a necklace to remind you why you're putting yourself through hell when the leads run cold. Second, the arrow means something entirely different to him. It's the arrow on a compass. He's been looking to Natasha for direction since the day he'd stepped on that helicarrier all those years ago. Just like Peggy, she's never steered him wrong.

She laughs a tiny sob. “Steve this- I-” she searches for the words blinking her eyes dry. “Can you help me put it on?”

He obliges. She turns her back to him, sweeping the hair off her neck and over her shoulder. He commits the moment to memory. Later, after she falls asleep, it will be the first thing he sketches.

“You know, Clint got me the original,” she says it with carefully studied nonchalance. As if the mention of his name didn't feel like a hard poke to a fresh bruise. It would be convincing if he didn't know better.

“I figured as much.” 

“Clint gave it to me, but it was Lilah’s idea. She was so little then." He can hear the smile in her voice as she briefly looses herself in the memory of the tiny girl who welcomed her into the Barton family without a moment's hesitation. With open arms and nose kisses. "Right after I joined shield, I was having… a tough time acclimating. Not everyone was convinced I’d turned over a new leaf. I don’t blame them, but people were suspicious and they had no qualms letting me know that they didn’t trust me as far as they could throw me. Well, Clint was discussing our workplace tensions with Laura one night and Lilah (who was going through a phase of strong objections to reasonable bedtimes) overheard some of it. She told Clint he should get me something, ‘get her a symbol, daddy, so everyone knows she’s on your team.’”  


He’d finished fastening the clasp a sentence or two into the story, but he stayed behind her, afraid if he looked her in the eyes she would stop. And he’s so desperate for a taste something real. He rests his hands on her shoulders until she covers them with one of her own, leaning into his touch. 

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He wants to say “you’re welcome” but the words are caught behind the lump in his throat. So he kisses her reverently instead. They melt into each other. It’s familiar, but not habit. Something deeper. Comfort. Tradition perhaps. It is a holiday after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!
> 
> So this posting is a bit out of order, I was/am still struggling with my year 3 piece which is meant to come before this, but I wanted to put the Christmas chapter out vaguely near the holiday. So here we are in this moment.


	5. New Asgard (same PTSD)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after the snap, Valkyrie welcomes Steve and Natasha when what first appeared to be an extraterrestrial threat (but turns out to be nothing more than harmless space debris) brings the former Avengers to New Asgard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my brilliant ride-or-die best friend. As I am writing this, she is writing a eulogy.  
> You support me in everything, you call me on my nonsense, you believe in my art even when I lose my faith. You keep me honest and you keep me writing. You bring joy and compassion to everyone who has the unparalleled pleasure of getting to know you.

It’s just past 10 a.m. and she needs a drink. It’s not so much raining as it is lightly misting, but it’s colder than she thinks the summer should be. Standing in the wet grass in a yellow jacket and matching wellies and the world’s itchiest sweater, as if it were knitted from steel wool or fiberglass, she takes a sip of the still warm coffee from her travel mug. People keep saying Norway has “some of the best coffee in the world” and while she hasn’t been enough places on this planet to agree or disagree, she has to admit it is pretty smooth and it does the job of keeping her alert as she watched the road for any sign of movement. Though, she admits to herself, it would be markedly better if it were spiked. 

But Valkyrie doesn’t do that anymore. Drink on the job, that is. Three years after “The Snap” those days are long behind her. She still drinks, of course, but not like she used to. Not to forget. Not like Thor does now. It had been fun, at first. A mournful and joyous wake that had carried on for weeks. For him it never stopped. She watched as he fell into a hole he had no desire to climb out of. She wouldn’t have thought she had enough heart left to break, but break it did. Once upon a time it seemed like something might develop between them. It was hardly more than a half-formed notion, but even the smallest wisp of it had died with his brother.

The first time he fell down plastered during a council meeting Valkyrie made up her mind. If he wouldn’t look out for his people, she would. At least until he got his act together. Three years in and he’d shown no signs of slowing down. No signs of showing up. And even sadder, no one in New Asgard is asking him to. 

She’d had another name once. It had been Brunnhilde, but that was the time before. Before her entire world was destroyed by a psychopath who thought themself a god. Well, before that happened the first time. Back then, “Valkyrie” wasn’t a name, it was a title. She was one of many. Now, she was alone. No longer a valkyrie, but _the_ Valkyrie. Val, if you were feeling familiar and very few people dared get familiar. Her old name was lost to time, like her lover, like her sisters, like her home world.

Some days she wishes she could go back to her old life on Sakaar. Not beholden to anyone. Working enough to pay for her drinks and trying to leave her past buried in it’s shallow grave. Now everyone needs something from her all the time. There’s always a dispute to settle, school curriculum to weigh in on, petitions to read, an economic proposal to sign off on, and a boat or a house or nets or a truck that needs repairing. Yesterday she had to approve fonts for the new tourism brochures. _Fonts_. She’s not sure what she would have done without Natasha’s help. All remote of course, but making arrangements, working with the remnants of local government, Natasha Romanoff and her very particular set of skills had done a lot to ease the burden in the early days. Leading an army had been easier. But that was then. Now Valkyrie is the type of woman who wears uncomfortable sweaters, because when a 4000 year-old woman who lost all 7 of her children and 11 grand-children knits you a sweater, you fucking wear it. Even if it does feel like it’s made out of cat claws and poison oak. 

She looks up from her coffee when she hears the telltale rumble of an old truck coming down the bumpy dirt road. _Finally, there they are._ She recognized the vehicle, one of the only three rental cars available in New Asgard. They should probably invest in more, but so far most tourists have loved navigating by foot or cycle. Here on Earth it’s like stepping backwards in time, she’s been told. Whatever. Her guests were able to easily obtain a vehicle when they parked the quinjet they came here in, that’s all that matters. 

The truck comes to a stop and a man and a woman hop out of the cabin. Natasha is smaller than she would have thought, though just as formidable in person as she has been by hologram. Steve Rogers is about what she’d expected. Approximately Thor sized. Standard hero build, exactly as he’d appeared on her screens. Just a general good-guy vanilla vibe wafting off him. 

The greetings are blessedly brief, a sideways smile and a friendly hug from Natasha, a firm handshake from Steve, a crack or two about the dirt rode and the drizzle and they’re ready to get down to business. Nat and Steve, she notes with pleasure, have about as much patience for pleasantries as she does. Which is to say absolutely none. 

“Our last readings on the incoming meteors have much lower radiation levels. The scans are indicating smaller masses than originally predicted as well, does that match your calculations?” Natasha asks.

“That’s what we’re seeing as well. It’s beginning to look like you two have come all this way for a few lights in the sky.”

“Trust me, I’ll be the last to complain if I get to spend the night watching a meteor shower instead of containing an extraterrestrial threat,” Steve says with a weary chuckle. A look passes between Natasha and Steve. Valkyrie feels a twinge of something just under her ribs. Not jealousy, something softer… longing. That easy connection, that wordless language you only find when you really know someone.  
A sibling, a friend, a partner, the relationships are different, but that _knowing_ is the same. She hadn’t realized how much she missed being known. 

The small chime of the alert on Natasha’s coms breaks her reverie. “Just got confirmation from Danvers, she’ll do a sweep and update us at 20:00 before anything enters the atmosphere.”

“So, in the meantime, why don’t I show you what New Asgard has to offer.”

“You’re going to put us all over the tourism instagram, aren’t you?” Steve asked with a wry smile.

“Me personally, of course not,” She swears. 

“But some intern, definitely.” It’s not a question. She supposes he must be very used to this sort of thing by now. She can tell he isn’t really bothered by it, even if his eyebrows do seem to be whispering quiet disapproval. She only shrugs in response, eliciting a hearty laugh from Captain Vanilla. 

 

\--

 

“Thor, come on” She yells through the door. 

“Go away” 

She thumps on the door again, “You are acting like a child.”

“You’re acting like a child” comes the mocking voice from the other side.

She lets out a heavy sigh before lifting her voice an octave, if he won’t be an adult there are other ways to persuade him. “Your friends are here. And we have beer”

The door opens a crack. “Beer?”

“Yes, lots and lots of beer. Now get dressed and come be a person.” 

“Can Korg and Meek come?”

“Bring the whole gang. And maybe brush the pizza crumbs out of your beard.” He gives a half-hearted chuckle and acquiesces before shutting the door again. _There. That wasn’t so hard_. It still stings to see him like this. To know that there isn’t some right thing she could say or some grand perfect gesture that would bring him back to who he was before. She knows better than most that the only way through it is through it. Gods, she hopes he’ll make it. She’s not waiting, but she hopes she’ll still be here when he does. 

\--

“Happy to report you’re all clear,” the chipper projection of Captain Danvers glimmers up from Natasha’s watch. “Just some harmless space junk. A few looked like they might be large enough to cause damage, so I did a little resizing. Everything left should burn up in the atmosphere. You’re in for a nice light show-” before she can finish the thought, Carol is rudely interrupted by a deafening boom followed by boisterous laughter. “What the hell was happening down there?”

“Sorry, the boys are playing with thunder. You should join us for the shower. We’ll call you back when we see the first meteor.”

“Sounds like a plan, Romanoff.” The transmission ends with a faint click.

It’s a relief, of course, it is. It’s certainly better for her people. But she was steeling herself for a fight. She can feel it. In her spine. In her teeth. That craving for a battle. She stopped feeling guilty about this centuries ago. She’s a warrior and if she doesn’t smash her blade into something solid she’s going to have a very tense and fidgety meteor viewing experience. 

“I don’t know about you, but Steve and I could really use a good sparring session. Interested?” Natasha asks.

“Am I that transparent?” she laughs.

“Not at all,” _Liar_ “we’re all a little tightly wound these days. And frankly, it’ll be good to go a few rounds with someone new. There’s only so many ways I can kick that guy’s ass, you know?” She points her thumb in Steve’s direction. 

“How’s your game with a battle axe?” A thrill runs across her shoulder blades as she watches Natasha’s eyes light up. _Alright then. Show me what you’ve got, Romanoff._

 

\--

 

“I just saw one!” Okoye chirps, a child’s excitement in her voice. Even through the blue tint of the hologram, the Wakandan General’s beaming face is a thing of beauty. Natasha Romanoff has her chin tilted to the sky in wonder. An adorable crinkle appears on Carol Danvers’ nose as the coms resonate her bright laughter. For the life of her, Valkyrie can’t remember the last time she felt this good. Like exhaling a long held breath. _Remember this moment. Remember every detail_ Valkyrie has the incredible foresight to think to herself. After all those years on Sakaar drinking to forget, the desire to commit an experience to memory still feels foreign. Like amor a size too big. But she’s grateful for it just the same. 

“How is the good captain?” 

“He’s fine, currently eating his weight in pizza with the god of thunder over there.” Natasha deadpans. 

Valkyrie stretches out her shoulder. Muscles still singing from their earlier sparring matches. The widow and the captain are a force of nature when they fight in tandem. Sharp, fast, flexible, and completely in sync. They almost gave her a run for her money. Almost. 

“Why did you say it like that?” Carol asks.

“Like what?” Okoye widens her eyes in mock innocence. 

“You said it like, oh my god they’re a thing. of course they are! I knew they were a thing!” Carol claps

“We’re not a-” Natasha begins to protest before being swiftly cut off by the Wakandan general. 

“He answered your phone.” 

“Our phones look similar” 

“It was a video call. It was 6 am in New York and he was shirtless. At _least_.”

Valkyrie snorts beer through her nose. 

“I… oh look meteors” 

“Expertly dodged, seamless.” 

“You want to talk about how you and M’Baku are just ‘sparring partners’”? 

“oh look meteors” Okoye points to the sky. 

“I just want to say for the record that I don’t know who M’Baku is, but I’m already very invested!” Carol chimes in. 

“Carol, any space men in your life.” Natasha asks, voice smooth, but clearly desperate to change the subject.

“I’m not super interested in men in general.” 

“My kind of woman.” Valkyrie purrs. 

“Am I?” Carol tilts her head, the faintest smirk gently kissing the corner of her mouth.

“Definitely.” Valyerie raises her glass toward the hologram, a look passing between them. A crackle of electricity. 

It’s Okoye who breaks the silence, “You two want a minute alone to keep flirting? I could put my com on mute, Nat could plug her ears.”

“Point taken” Valkyrie laughs but she throws another glance in Danvers’ direction. Carol is looking back with a sheepish half smile and a slight shrug. _oh she’s definitely into me._

\--

After the call ends, they gather on blankets to watch the remaining meteors. Sparks of white streak across the clear night sky. As if the stars themselves heard what fun these heroes were having and couldn’t help but sneak by for a closer look. Some of the larger one have touches of green or blue at the ends of their tails. It’s dazzling. Though, part of the splendor might be augmented by the copious amounts of ale and mead they’ve all had to drink. She, Nat, and Steve hadn’t started until they received the all clear from Carol, but once they had, they thought what’s the harm? Afterall, the nights in New Asgard are cold and nothing keeps you feeling warm like just the right amount of well-aged alcohol. 

Thor nudges her lightly, pointing at their guests. Natasha has her head on Steve’s chest, their hands intertwined and their faces turned skyward in awe. She feels that familiar pull again. A quiet ache just to the left of envy, longing. She turns back to find a dopey grin plastered on the god of thunder’s face as he wiggles his fingers at her. She scoffs audibly, but takes his hand anyway. The warmth spreads up her arm to her chest and down into the pit of her stomach. Perhaps she shouldn’t. Perhaps she should set firm boundaries and keep her distance. But… But perhaps it feels just a little too right. Perhaps this is exactly what they both need tonight. Even if it’s only for a moment. They can hold each other and watch the sky like regular people. The ground is soft beneath the blanket They can pretend. Just for a while. 

 

The last of the meteors disintegrated in the atmosphere an hour ago and her guests are heading back to the rental cottage she secured for them. She watches them giggling off into the distance. Steve carrying Natasha on his back, wobbling slightly. Calls of “Steady now, soldier” and “I could do this all day” slowly fade into the night. Was there ever this much joy in the world? She is giddy and heavy headed. A loud snore smashes through her reverie. The big oaf has fallen sound asleep in the grass. She chances a look at his slumbering face. Golden hair a matted mess, mouth hanging open. Beautiful. Still beautiful. A large part of her will always be soft for Thor Odinson. What a treasure it is to be reminded. To find any soft parts left at all. 

She could wake him, insist he get up and go home. Far more trouble than it’s worth. She could walk home, leave him to be woken by the first light of morning. Or. Or she could stay. It’s been a while since she’s watched the sun come up. And home is such a long walk from here (even if she could manage to walk in a straight line right now). Besides, she’s slept in far worse places than this. She settles back down beside the snoring fool. Slowly, quite without her notice, her mind goes perfectly peacefully blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my whole entire butt. I was trying to do way too many things. But it's finally done. It's out of order, the year 4 piece was the previous chapter. But what can you do?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [ here ](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined.


End file.
